The Harlot and the Hound
by Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter
Summary: AU 5 years after ACoK  Sandor stops at an inn to wait out the storm and buys himself an evening of entertainment, but he gets more than he bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

Sandor Clegane was killing a man.

Blood spurted from his chest in a hot crimson fountain, splattering like sparkling rubies cast across the virgin snow.

The Hound watched with grim satisfaction as the man gurgled and choked on the blood bubbling up in his throat. This was not a clean death. Nor did the bastard deserve one for what he'd done.

Sandor dropped to his knees and leaned in close to the pretty knight's face.

"Yes, look at me, boy. Take this vision with you to the seven hells and know I'll come for you there too," he growled, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. Sandor knew he looked exactly like what he was, a rabid dog.

There was a price on Sandor Clegane's head and this knight meant to have it—fair means or foul. He'd lit the stable where Clegane slept on fire, hoping the Hound would be too addled with fear to defend himself.

A deadly mistake. One that now cost him his life.

The dying knight clawed uselessly at the heavy, wet snow, filling his hands, flexing around the cold mounds like they were his mother's teats and would somehow save him.

The Hound barked a laugh—the sound like a clash of swords, yet all the more horrible for the honest joy in it.

If he'd been able to do it without drawing too much attention to himself, he would have burned the knight alive, roasted him in his armor like the pig he was. Let him feel the wages of what he would have inflicted upon another.

Sandor wanted to stay and watch the light go out of his eyes, but dusk was falling as fast as snowflakes, stars blinking to chilly life in the sky above him.

And the beasts and dark things that stalked the night would smell the blood and heat of the meal Sandor had left for them from leagues away. He preferred not to be present while they disposed of his mess.

An eerie, unfamiliar howl echoed through the forest, unlike any wolf or other beast Sandor had ever heard before. Stranger perked his ears and pawed at the ground with his massive hooves.

Sandor launched himself onto the destrier's back and Stranger thundered toward the high road. If he had his way, he would not make camp tonight, but would ride straight through until the warm fingers of dawn clawed the night back down into the dark.

His instincts told him to ride hard, not for dawn, but for the next inn. The snow swirled around him, the flakes fat and heavy. The sky which had quickly fallen to dusk was now lit with an odd green tinge. The first sign of one of these bastard northern storms—it was the frozen ice high above the firmament reflecting and refracting the light, like the western borealis.

After the day he'd had, Sandor had to admit he wouldn't mind passing the rest of the night in a warm bed, with warm spiced wine and a warm whore. Or a cold whore. As long as she spread her legs, the rest didn't much matter.

But he couldn't help thinking he'd like a fine-boned creature with a hellion's red hair.

His fingers were stiff and frozen by the time the twinkling lights of the town came into view and he had to fight to uncurl them from around the worn leather of the reins.

The city gates were closed and Sandor was torn. With the gates kept closed, he'd be trapped, but it would keep unwanted things out.

He realized it didn't matter what he thought about it, the snow was more like pale sea and in minutes, he wouldn't be able to see his hand in front of his own face. He had to stop here, gate or no gate.

The gatekeeper asked him his business and keeping his cowl over his face, he answered. The heavy gates swung open just enough to allow Stranger to carry him inside and he headed for the The Nag's Head.

The sign swung back and forth, creaking like an old bedlam's knees in the chill air. Smoke wafted black and heavy from the chimney, but when he stepped inside, there was only a boy who he paid to stable his horse and a man in front of the hearth fire sipping a whiskey.

"Cold night," the man muttered.

"Aye, it is." Sandor studied the interior strategically marking exits and possible weapons.

"You'll be wanting a stew and a room, ser?"

Fuck your sers was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit back the retort. No one needed to know who he was and bringing attention to himself by giving a shite what they called him. Any looking for him would be looking for a dog, not a ser.

"And a wench," he added.

"The color of your coin?" the innkeeper asked as he drew himself slowly from his chair by the fire.

"Gold."

"A fine knight such as yourself would have the gold." He nodded to himself.

Sandor ground his teeth and considered killing him if he said anything else about knightly virtue.

"Depends on if ye want to spend it, ser."

"Meaning?" Sandor asked, the shadows of the fire playing on the wall and dancing in macabre lines over the old man's face.

"For a virgin."

Sandor couldn't contain the barked laugh that escaped him. A virgin? Here? Virgins were bought and sold through high class flesh peddlers. Not aged innkeepers. They were more and more a rare commodity these days, with flesh as the only thing of value many had to trade.

"What in the name of the seven hells would I do with a virgin?" Sandor had never had a virgin and never cared to—although as soon as the thought entered his head, he knew it for a godsdamned lie. He wanted Sansa Stark.

"She's very skilled. Taught by the best to use her mouth, her tongue, her fingers in an island king's seraglio."

Did this man take him for a fool? "Then how is the girl a virgin?"

"Her veil is untouched. She's cursed."

"Oh, by the gods." Fucking nonsense. He snorted. "I'd rather have an honest whore."

"She has skin like fresh cream and hair like fire…"

Fire? Sandor didn't hear the rest of what the innkeep said. In that second he knew he'd take the whore, virgin or no. He'd even pay the virgin's price, because in the dark skin like cream and hair like fire would be enough.

Sandor had no illusions about himself, he knew he was a twisted bastard that after all these years he still fantasized about the only fire he'd ever wanted to burn in—Sansa Stark's hair.

He'd heard Joffrey had killed her after Sandor'd left King's Landing. Beat her to death, his little bird with her feathers spread all over the executioner's block.

It was the only thing he regretted, not taking her from there. She'd never answered him, she'd never said no. And while he wanted her then as a man wants a woman, he wouldn't have fucked her.

But not because he was a good man. He wasn't. It was her innocence even in the face of such wanton depravity that made her so beautiful. If he'd touched her as he wanted to, that would be gone. It would shatter like all of her pretty little dolls in their lace dresses posed with knights and kings.

He would have kept her safe though, kept her in a gilded glass cage like one of those porcelain dolls and she'd sing for him—her sweet voice pulling him down into sleep like his mother's once had.

That wasn't so much to ask for her life, was it? A song from a little bird safe and warm in her glass palace with her stories of valor and happily ever afters.

And yet, even so, he'd used whores in the most deviant of ways thinking of her. As if in some other world, some other time, she'd ever deign to look at him with more than pity. Or even, he thought, the awe of a child, as she had that day when he'd saved her precious Knight of Flowers. Yes, some other place than here. A place where whores were virgins and dogs were true knights.

He dropped the gold coins onto the battered surface of the bar and the innkeeper thrust them into his pockets with the cool demeanor of a man used to brokering such deals.

Sandor knew he was being played a fool, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"I'll have the hot water sent up for your bath. The wench will attend you."

Why couldn't he just fuck her and have done? But he realized he still had blood on his hands. He didn't want her to attend him though, for the sake of anonymity; he had to stay in the shadows.

He parted with a few more coins. "No. Have her enjoy some hot water as well. I want her clean and sweet smelling." Not that he gave a tinker's damn, it was simply a good excuse.

"As you wish, lord." He made his way to the stairs and Sandor followed the rickety man up to the second floor and to a non-descript room.

A while later, after he'd had some warm stew, spiced wine and a bath, he waited for the virgin whore with only a breechcloth slung low on his hips and bittersweet ash on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The woman with hair like spun embers and skin of cream wondered about the man who would finally tear her veil.

Old Robin had told her he was a fine knight, strong and of sound body. With a heavy purse.

_A fine knight_. She almost laughed aloud. The woman had never known a fine knight.

At one time, she would have wondered what kind of man would buy a woman's virginity, but she didn't have to wonder. She knew. She'd been married six times.

And each time, before her husband could take what he'd paid for, he'd died. Falling towers, strange fires, poison, drowning, jousting… Even the strange island king with his harem had choked to death on a chicken bone.

The island king's soldiers sold her to a passing slave ship and even in the brothel that purchased her, those who only used her mouth or her arse suffered from luck so ill they whispered her to be cursed. The brothel would have slit her throat when no one would purchase her wares, but the old man bought her to help him in The Nag's Head.

Even here, in this place, they'd heard of her. Not a one touched her when she served ale, or made lewd comments. No one would even meet her eyes. The woman was a pariah. She was sure there was no one in the seven kingdoms who hadn't heard of the cursed virgin whore.

If the knight was kind to her, she would say a prayer for him. The gold he'd paid for her body would keep her and Old Robin fed for the long years of winter, if they were careful.

The woman who had once been Sansa Stark still remembered her courtesies.

She smoothed her hands down over her gown and knocked lightly.

"Come," said a voice so low she could barely hear it.

Sansa opened the door slowly and saw the room was bathed in shadow. There were no candles or lamps, only the dancing fire in the hearth. It cast warm orange slashes across the room that writhed and twisted.

The man who'd bought her was a giant; his powerful legs dwarfed the great chair he'd chosen to sit in, the one that swallowed her like a lion would a mouse. His large hands rested at his knees and she knew instantly they were the hands of a killer.

Those hands would be on her body, kneading her breasts, spreading her thighs. But it wasn't so horrible a fate, they were nice hands. Large and broad, thick-fingered, but clean.

And scarred. She liked that. A spiderwebbing of white flesh was bright in the small light from the fire and it comforted her. This man, whoever he was, had bled and suffered for something he believed in.

Or so it soothed her to think.

The only men who'd ever been kind to her had all been damaged in some way—marked by their trials. It was the pretty ones that were venomous like brightly colored snakes.

Sansa had the overwhelming urge to see his face. She peered into the darkness, but all she could make out was a length of dark hair around powerful shoulders.

She closed the door behind her carefully and began unlacing her gown.

"Step into the light. I want to see the color of your hair," he said in that same low tone.

Sansa obeyed, turning her face away from him so he could see hair as he'd asked.

"There is a scrap of silk on the table. Cover your eyes."

Sansa did as she was bidden, unafraid. There was nothing he could do to her now that hadn't been done before—except for what he'd paid for. He could do as he liked with her.

It was worth it to know she wouldn't go hungry.

After securing the strip of cloth around her eyes, she waited.

She was startled when she felt his hands on the laces of her bodice. Sansa hadn't heard him move.

"Are you afraid?" The fingers stopped their motion.

"No." She wet her lips. "Are you?"

His barked laugh teased a forgotten memory, reminded her of things she'd struggled to forget. "Why would I be afraid?" he rasped against her ear.

She shivered at the sensation, found it…pleasing. "I'm the cursed virgin whore. My husbands have all died before they could touch me and any who have used me in other ways have suffered ill luck. Or hadn't you heard the stories?"

"Piss on that. I make my own luck."

Another feather light sensation of awakened memory tingled at the edges of her awareness. There was something about this man that was familiar. His blunt speech made her feel something she couldn't name.

He pushed her dress from her shoulders and it slid down to pool around her ankles. The man said nothing, but he filled his rough hands with her breasts, drawing his thumbs over her nipples, making them tight and stiff.

It wasn't unpleasant.

Sometimes when the men had touched her, it even felt good. And Sansa refused to feel shamed. Pleasure came in small bits, it was a warm meal, a soft bed, clean water, and sometimes even in the cold act of pleasing a stranger. In the seraglio, she'd had servants who taught her how to please herself and how to please a man. She'd come to enjoy those lessons because if she'd allow it, they made her body sing. She could be anywhere in those moments, with anyone. One tongue in the dark was the same as any other.

The caress stopped and he led her across the room to sit on the bed.

"Turn," he ordered her.

She twisted away from him carefully and his hands were in her hair, combing it with his fingers slowly, as if touching her hair was the only thing that mattered in the world. The sensation calmed her, put her at ease and reminded her of her septa brushing her hair before bed.

The mattress sagged where he sat and he pulled her back against his bare chest. He wrapped a hand gently around her throat and tilted her head to run his fingers down her neck to the valley of her breasts and then tangle in her hair again.

His cock was hard against backside and just as large as the rest of him, but he was in no hurry. He was still content to run his fingers through her tresses.

It made her feel pretty. Like a woman, instead of an object. Like he was touching her because he found her beautiful, not because he wanted to spill his seed into any available cunt.

Sansa knew even after all she'd been through, sometimes she was still a stupid girl. She was painting an unknown man in the colors of honor and valor, with the pink tint of courtly love all because he hadn't bent her over the table like the whore she was.

She sighed. Once she'd dreamed of marrying a prince and now, she was selling her body to man who could be a beggar, a thief, and a murderer, but would still be a better man than her prince.

His hand dipped down from her neck, over her breast down to the flat concave of her belly and she spread herself for him, drew her knees up and opened her legs, but he ventured no further.

His hot breath was on her cheek and it smelled of spiced wine and mint.

And for the first time, she wondered what a man would taste like if he kissed her.

"Will you not kiss me?" she dared.

"I cannot," he whispered against her ear.

Understanding smacked her. The blindfold. He wouldn't touch his face to hers. The dark. "Are you malformed in some way?"

"And would you run screaming if I said yes?" he growled bitterly. "My coin is just as gold—"

"No," she answered quickly and the memories that had been howling at the gates of her consciousness tore through the walls she'd erected. Sansa suddenly knew why he comforted her, what was familiar about him.

He reminded her of a man long dead. A hard man who was what the world had made him—brutal and strong. A man who would have been her shield against the world she now lived in, had she but the courage to have gone with him.

Sandor Clegane.

But it couldn't be. He'd been put down like the rabid dog they'd made of him. She'd heard it had taken twelve of them to do it.

She felt his heart thundering against her back like a herd of wild horses. Even after he'd paid for her, she realized he still believed she'd reject him. What suffering had he known that a whore would turn down his coin?

Sansa drew his hand back up to her breast and arched into the touch. "No. Only a stupid child would run away from a man because of his face."

"You haven't seen it," he said quietly.

"It doesn't matter. The horror of a person is never on their skin, but underneath."

"I'm a bastard underneath too," he admitted.

"Then why are you here with me like this? You could have easily taken me twice by now and you have not."

"Because I didn't take her either. I should have." He tugged on her nipple and pushed his other hand down between her thighs. As if such a lewd action would negate his confession.

What if the Hound had had these regrets? Where would she be if he'd just taken her? Taken his song, that kiss and her?

"Yes, whoever she was, you should have. I have my own regrets and I know if he would have been the bastard you claim to be, my life would be very different."

"She had your hair." He drew his stubbled cheek along hers.

_And he had your pain. Scars._But she didn't speak. He was no more Sandor Clegane than she was the woman he'd lost. Sandor would have had himself balls deep by now, especially if he'd paid for it. No pretty words and no brushing her hair by the fire.

His fingers ghosted over her clit until her hips jerked toward his touch and for a moment, she pretended she'd gone with the Hound and this was his claiming.

She tilted her face up and buried her face in his neck. Sansa drew his silky hair into her hand and held it in a knot so she could taste him and eventually, he turned his face to hers, brushed his lips down over mouth.

Sansa clung to him then, surrendered to the storm that swirled inside of her. His mouth was a ruin of flesh, the wounds that he hadn't wanted her to see, yet they wrought pleasure in her just the same.

Her tongue darted out along the edge of his lip and he growled a sound of pleasure low in his throat, like her direwolf had made when she'd petted her.

Sansa had another realization. This man knew a woman's body well, but he'd never kissed a woman's mouth before.

This man wasn't Sandor, but she could give him what she couldn't give the Hound. The only thing she had to give.

She turned in his grasp and brought her hands up to touch his face.


	3. Chapter 3

He grabbed her wrists hard, harder than he meant to, but she didn't cry out or shrink from him.

She simply waited. Fearless.

Maybe he should have blindfolded all the women he fucked.

Even so, Clegane knew this one was different. She was just as bruised and battered as he was, only it wasn't obvious on her unmarred skin.

By the gods, she was beautiful. He hadn't seen her eyes, but somehow he knew they would be blue. Not the chilly blue of waterways, but blue of the sky in the long summer. There was a delicate grace to the alabaster arc of her cheek, an elegance in her limbs as if her very flesh had been sculpted by a master artist. Her breasts were heavy, but firm, just right in his hands. The curve of her hip was rounded and soft, and her sweet quim had been wet after his touch. She'd arched into him, demanded more and by the heat coming from her, she actually wanted him. If it was an act, it was a damned good one. He'd definitely have his money's worth.

It unmanned him to think that rather than take the fuck he'd paid for, he simply wanted to look at her. To bury his face and hands in that cascade of hair that smelled like roses.

Part of him that he'd believed to be only soot and ash breathed again, it wanted to take off her blindfold and kiss her in the light—wanted to believe she'd let him and still press her body against his, that her slit would still be wet for him instead of waiting for it to be over so she could take her coin and move on to another.

Disgust at himself bloomed hot and black at the base of his skull. And he hated the beautiful woman in front of him for making him feel these things, acknowledge them. For making him admit that he was a stupid dog who'd forgotten his place.

"Get out." He let go of her and retreated from the bed back into shadow.

Her little chin lifted in defiance. "No."

Clegane was sure he'd misheard her. No woman had ever disobeyed him. Especially not a whore.

"I don't want you." He knew in that moment there were no gods because surely they would have struck him dead for such a lie.

"No?" she asked, unfazed. The woman reclined back on the bed, her thighs open like some kind of sacrifice to the old gods.

The light haloed her pearly skin, sliding over her like the lover he wanted to be. Her slick folds were bare to his view and then she did the unthinkable. She dipped her fingers into her own honey and flicked over her clit.

He cock was so hard, he could drive spears through brick.

"I said to get out."

He could see the bruises he'd put on her wrists and he felt both a sense of possession at seeing his mark on her and shame for having hurt her. Clegane knew he was lower than a dog for having bitten the only hand that cared to pet him.

"It feels so good, but I liked your hand better," she said as if he hadn't spoken.

He sank to his knees on the floor, unable to process what was happening to him.

She'd left the blindfold on. She was frigging herself and begging for his touch. These things were a mace in his gut.

Clegane crept over to her like a dog on his belly, waiting to be kicked again, for surely that was the only outcome here.

His mouth descended before he could think better of it and tasted her. He pushed her hand away, but instead of dropping to her side, her fingers twined with his.

Perhaps she was some demon conjured from the seven hells to give a man what he desired and suck the life from him? In that moment, he believed it to be true. This whore was all things woman—both primal and ethereal. She was the maiden, still bearing her veil. She was the mother, sheltering him from the cruelty of his memories. Finally, she was the crone because this blind acceptance would be the death of him.

But for all of his injuries and twisted features, the Hound had a talented tongue.

He laved at her flesh, tasted her, suckled her and kneaded her swollen clit with the strong tip of his tongue. She thrashed beneath him, her small hand still twined with his.

Sandor moved his grasp to the small of her back and drew her forward toward his mouth, anchored her against his lips so she couldn't squirm away. He pushed his tongue inside the seam of her, tasted the salt-sweet of her and wanted more.

Her other hand wrapped around the back of his neck and her fingers knotted in his hair. She jerked to pull him away as her body tensed and she grit her teeth, but he wouldn't stop. He'd make her spill her bliss all over his face and he'd lap it up and make her do it again.

A hound is nothing if not dogged in his persistence.

Her fierce tugs on his hair only spurred him on, made him want her more.

She came hard, but he didn't stop, only slowed his ministrations—softened them.

"Are you ready for me then?" he demanded in a brusque tone.

"Yes."

He pushed a finger inside of her and her slit tightened around him, pulling him deeper into her wet heat. She was so tight. Sandor eased another digit inside of her and thrust in and out, pleased when evidence of her need coated his fingers.

Then he felt it. The little bit of flesh he'd traded his hard won gold for. Her virginity.

Intact.

He was so sure it had been a lie.

But he wasn't noble enough to stop now, he'd told her to leave, he'd given her an escape and she'd chosen to stay, the seven hells take them both.

Sandor pressed against her channel, she was slick for him, but it was an impossible task.

He'd heard knights talking about fucking virgins, how tight they were, how big their eyes got when they cried out about how it wouldn't fit… the maid had no such reservations, but Sandor did.

Her hot little cunt was just that, she was so delicately made, he'd rip her apart.

This was a woman fully grown, if he'd done this to Sansa in King's Landing, he would have left her broken and bloody. And this woman had told him he should have.

He closed his eyes against his memories, all of this sensation. It was too much.

"I know it will hurt. Do it," she whispered and dug her little claws into his shoulders.

Sandor entered her in one solid thrust and felt that bit of flesh tear and she shuddered against him.

"Kiss me," she pleaded softly.

He tasted her lips again and when her hand came up to rest on his cheek, he allowed it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa had known to expect pain.

She'd known to expect the overwhelming intimacy of the act, because she'd been with men before. She'd used every other part of her body but this one.

But it hadn't prepared her for this.

It was both heaven and hell—she shattered, but he held her together. It was as if her world had suddenly become the tiniest pinpoint and the man inside of her was the Alpha and Omega of all things.

She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist and drew her hand up to touch his face.

He froze, his body completely still, but for the harsh rasps of breath that expanded his chest.

But his face was no horror. It was only smooth skin, hard-angled cheekbones, and a strong jaw. She drew her thumb over his lower lip and it was hard, a grim slash, but full too. Sansa rather imagined it was like some sculpted god she'd seen carved in relief.

He began to pull away as she trailed her fingers down over the other side of his mouth, but she tightened her legs around his hips and he pushed deeper inside of her. Almost as if he were punishing her for her trespass.

There was still a kind of pain, but she craved it. Strange jolts shot through her veins to her fingertips with every thrust.

It was other side of his mouth that was the ruin she'd felt on her lips, the flesh ropey and hard, pocked and potted. The topography of this man's pain was spread out before her and she followed the tributaries and streams of his suffering up his devastated cheek.

Sansa thought it was beautiful in a macabre way. It wasn't something to be hidden in the dark, but shown with pride to the seven kingdoms. It was a banner for his strength, his courage as surely as any knight's spurs or lord's device. No, it was better. He'd proven himself against something so awful, and yet here he lived. Here he breathed.

Whatever this man had done, he was strong. Stronger than all the rest of them.

"_I could keep you safe," he rasped. "__They__'__re all afraid of me__. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."_

If this man had said that to her, she'd have believed him too. If only she'd said yes instead of closing her eyes and waiting for him to take the choice away from her. She'd wanted him to, she'd wanted to go with him, but she'd been afraid to say yes. Afraid of what it meant for all of her hopes and dreams.

"More," she demanded, as her memories of Sandor merged with the man who fucked her.

It hurt when he thrust deep, but pain made for the strongest memories. When he was gone, she'd fold it up and put it away like a Sandor's bloody cloak in her hope chest and save it for the bleakest of winter nights.

When she unwrapped the memory, it wouldn't be some unknown knight who'd fucked her and taken her maiden's blood. It would be Sandor Clegane. And she knew that wherever this knight went, he'd do the same. He wouldn't remember her, but a shared dream of heat with the redhaired woman he'd lost.

He drilled into her, her soft flesh yielding and needing. She arched up to meet him, matched his desperation. Sansa drew his head down to hers and he didn't hesitate this time to kiss her, to crush her mouth in a hard possession.

She traced her fingers over his broad back, enjoying the play of muscle beneath the skin, the flexed muscle of his biceps as he drove them toward culmination.

Sansa bucked her hips and tightened her slit to draw him deeper inside of her.

"Save me," she cried. But it wasn't to the Mother, or the powers that be, it was to him. If only she'd let Sandor save her, protect her… The very idea of being safe, of having someone who would stand for her, it made her hotter than any flick of the tongue or caress of fingers.

Even his scars under her touch, yes, those turned her on too. Symbols of strength and power—of defeating any enemy that tried to tear him down.

And he knew. She didn't know how, but he did. Because he hauled her up, shifted her so that she was riding him and he buried his face in her hair, thrusting up into her roughly and he rasped against her ear, "Come with me."

Or perhaps it was only a mad fancy of her stupid brain. He wanted her to come as he spilled. He wasn't asking her to go anywhere, he wasn't Sandor Clegane offering to save her.

Poor stupid Sansa.

Yet, the idea of that was what sent her over the edge. Ecstasy exploded in a starburst behind her eyes and she shuddered against him. He continued to move her hips with his big hands, but more slowly now.

"Oh gods, I can't," she whimpered against his scarred cheek, though she dragged her own cheek along the skin softly.

"Tell me his name."

She couldn't. She didn't dare. Sansa didn't know who this knight was and she couldn't speak the name out loud, because it was sacred to her.

Her knight kissed along her jaw as he continued to fuck her, ghosting his lips over the swan arch of her neck.

"Let me know the name of the man I was to you tonight."

His voice was harsh, gravelly, but something in it was oddly tender. Something secret that was only theirs.

"Will you tell me her name then too?" Sansa whispered on a ragged breath, struggling against the tremors still shaking her body.

"Yes." He licked at the pulse in her throat, before nipping at the tender skin lightly.

She gasped his name then, "Sandor."


	5. Chapter 5

_Sandor_

His first instinct was to put a knife to her throat and demand to know just exactly who the fuck she was, but he couldn't bring himself to withdraw from her cunt.

She touched him, his scars, his face and there'd been no revulsion there. She'd wanted him.

Oh, she must be some hellbitch indeed.

Logic told him that in all of the world, there had to be more than one man named Sandor. She didn't know him. She couldn't.

And there was only one woman he'd ever offered anything of himself to and she'd not wanted it. No, this was some conjuration—some demon. He'd have his money's worth nevertheless. He'd ride her into the seven hells if that's where she wanted to take him.

Yes, he'd trade whatever he had left of his soul for the illusion of Sansa Stark.

"Tell me her name," she pleaded.

"You already know," he growled. Perhaps this was one of the hells and his body was still out in the blizzard.

"How could I know?" she asked softly, still clinging to him, her heat still wrapped around him. "Do you think me some witch?"

"Yes," he rasped. He slid his hands down her back and there, he felt a fine crisscross of raised flesh. Scars from a whip.

He knew then she was no wraith, no demon. She was just a whore who happened to have hair like liquid flame. Who'd suffered, maybe as much as he had. Sandor was as bad as the rest of the lot, with their curses and nonsense. It wouldn't hurt to tell her his little bird's name.

"Her name was Sansa."

She reared back and ripped her blindfold off before he could stop her.

He didn't want to kill her, but if she saw his face, he'd have to. Sandor wrapped his fingers around her neck, not looking up at her. Not wanting to see either her revulsion, or acceptance. It didn't matter because he'd have her blood on his hands.

Her fingers were slender, but firm and dug into his jaw to draw his face up to hers.

And her eyes, Seven have mercy, her eyes.

They weren't just the blue of the sky in the long summer. They were Tully blue.

Even though he knew she couldn't be Sansa, he spilled inside of her, unable to stop himself as he drowned in the endless pools of her eyes.

He held her close after he'd finished, he didn't know if he could bear to look at her. Looking at her meant he either had to acknowledge her or deny her. If he believed she was Sansa, then this, what had happened to her was his fault. She'd said she wished he'd taken her… saved her. The memory of the scars on her back burned into his fingers.

And if he denied that she was Sansa Stark, she'd seen his face. She'd have to die. Even after the kindness she'd shown him. Either choice was the path to pain.

"They told me you were dead." Hot drops splashed on his forehead and cheeks. She was crying.

Over him. Over a fucking dog.

"Have you ever wondered if we are dead and this Hell?" he said bitterly.

Her embrace tightened. "It really is you, Clegane." Her hands were in his hair again, on his face.

Sandor acknowledged what he already knew. It was her. Sansa, the name for sin and redemption

He finally had his little bird. All it had taken were for her wings to be ripped off, her song whipped from her and then she was fit for the Hound. Her innocence was long gone, all that what he thought had made her what she was to him, an ideal woman.

But he knew there were no such things as ideals made living flesh, no true knights, no paragons of womanly virtue.

She was here. She was alive.

And she wanted him.

He was afraid she'd made the memory of him into something it wasn't, made him into something he wasn't and alternately afraid she hadn't. He could never live up to her ideals, but he could try. What he never could admit was that he wanted to be her true knight, her Florian, or anyone or anything she needed. She made him want to be a better man.

"They told me you were dead too. That Joffrey beat you to death."

"He tried," she admitted.

Sansa pulled away from him and looked down at him, but he still wasn't ready to meet her eyes.

"I shouldn't have left you," he confessed on a ragged exhale into her neck.

"I shouldn't have been afraid."

"You would have been stupid not to be. I'm a monster, Sansa."

"I've been accused of that before. Of being a stupid little bird." She laughed. "No, you never would have hurt me. It was always you, your sword and yourself between me and harm."

He eased her down, almost against his will. She was pliable in his arms, all but for her damned fingers which she kept on his face. Stroking his cheek, smoothing back into his hair—he didn't understand why she kept touching his scars. Like they'd become holy things to her.

"I would have hurt you. Maybe not that night, but I'm not a good man." Another confession uttered as if she hadn't seen him kill, seen him maim. As if she was still a sweet little bird who didn't know anything about the world or the bad men in it.

"Why? Because you wanted to fuck me?" Her laugh was bitter now, not a sound he'd ever thought to hear from her. "Better you, a strong man who tended my bruises who would have kept me safe, a man who wanted my song instead of my screams and terror. Would you have wanted to make me scream, Sandor?"

A sound came from low in his throat, a guttural and primal sound of rage.

"Or is this your way of telling me that I've loved your memory in vain? That now that I'm not your little bird anymore, now that I'm not a round cheeked maid with stars in her eyes that you don't want anything past what you've paid for?"

"Sansa," he began. Fuck, but her name felt good on his lips, knowing he was speaking to her and she was there, hearing him. He could say everything he wished he'd told her, but now it all escaped him.

"It's all right," she said with quiet resignation and dropped her hand.

The loss of her touch made him bereft, like when she'd taken her hand away, all of the light had gone with it.

"I'm just a dumb animal, Sansa. I'm a rabid dog and I don't know how to…" he trailed off.

The light returned when she tangled her hands in his hair once again. She understood.

"Tell me why you wanted a whore with red hair."

"Because when I dream of fire, I'd rather dream of burning in your hair."

He dropped his head onto her flat stomach and his large hand palmed her hip.

She sighed softly. "Then you don't have to know how to do anything. All you have to do is keep loving me."

He moved so that he could pull her against his chest and she fit against him as if she'd been made for him. Sandor knew better, nothing so fine could have been crafted for him, but he'd found her. Sansa belonged to him. She'd said so.

"Stupid little bird," he said gently as he twined her hair around his fingers. Sandor felt her cheek curve in a smile and her lips press against his skin.

"Dumb dog," she muttered in a tender reply.

As they fell asleep in each other's arms, the horrors of the world drifted away like the swirling snow in the blizzard outside. Winter had come to Westeros, but in the shadow of a breath that lay between them—it was always the summerland.


End file.
